A Search For A Secret: A Novel. Vol. 3

by G. A. Henty

"You must not fidget yourself, dearest, about what I am going to say now. I should not say it at all, but the fact is so notorious that I have no doubt you will see allusions and accounts in the newspapers, which will very likely, as newspapers often do, greatly exaggerate matters, and had I not written to you on the subject, might make you very uneasy. Some of the native troops are grumbling and disaffected. It seems that some one has persuaded them that the cartridges they use are greased with pig's fat, on purpose to destroy their caste. However, the authorities are quite awake, and several of the regiments have been disarmed; and there, no doubt, with a severe punishment of some of the ringleaders, the matter will end. These scamps are too well treated, and, like all men who are too well fed and too much petted, they must find something to grumble at. The cartridge question is a mere pretext, and could be at once avoided by withdrawing all the cartridges which have been served, and letting the men make them for themselves. I suppose it will blow over, as these things usually do; but the native mind is certainly a good deal disturbed; strange rumours are going about the country, and the natives in general have an idea that the Company's raj, or rule, is going to end shortly; but I confess that, for my part, I don't think John Company is at all likely to give up this trifling bit of country in a hurry."

The rest of Percy's letter was written in his usual way, and was very loving and tender. He said that in a little more than two years he should be thinking of starting for England, and that as he had not fallen in love with any native princess yet, he thought there was every chance now of his claiming me when he got back. It was a very long letter—longer even than usual; but long as it was, how often and often I have read it over since!

It was the last I ever received from him.

The letter was written from a place in India then but little known in England, although it has attained a terrible celebrity since. It was dated from Lucknow, where Percy had recently been sent with a very good staff appointment, his regiment being in quite another part of India. The mail which brought his letter, brought, as he had predicted, accounts of disaffection in the Bengal army; but still, no one thought that it was anything very serious, and I did not feel at all uneasy, for the scene where the regiments had been mutinous and were disarmed, was a very long distance from the place where he was stationed.

The next mail brought news of how the disaffection was spreading—fresh regiments had mutinied, and had been disbanded; and the next—oh, what a throb of agony it sent through England!—told of risings and massacres, and unutterable horrors. Oh, it was terrible! With what fearful anxiety I waited, as thousands did in England at that dreadful time, for the arrival of the next mail! and how that anxiety grew when the post only brought darker and darker news, and tidings that at every station there were risings and massacres.

Every one during that two months was very, very kind to me. We were very quiet, for Harry brought no one in now, and Charley Horton was our only visitor. He tried to moderate his big hearty voice for my sake, and brought me down what cheering news he could from the City,—of how people thought it would not spread farther, and that our troops would soon get the upper hand again. I tried hard to believe him; but I could not but feel that he only told me so to cheer me, and not because he believed what he said.

At last one morning Harry went up as usual to catch the eight o'clock train, but instead of going by it, came back in twenty minutes after he had started. As he came in at the gate I saw that he had the paper in his hand, and I felt intuitively that there was bad news in it, and that he had come back to tell me.

"Do not be alarmed, Agnes," he said, as he came in, seeing the look of terrible suspense on my face. "There is nothing about Percy in the paper."

"Thank God!" I murmured.

"The news," he went on, "is only what we had almost expected. The last mail told us that they were making every preparation; and with a man like Lawrence to lead them, there is, I trust, no fear for their ultimate safety. Still, darling, the news is undoubtedly bad. They have risen at Lucknow. The garrison have retreated to the Residency. They made a sortie at first to meet the rebels, who were marching towards the town; but it seems that our men got the worst of it. So they blew up the fort, which the last mail said they were fortifying, and all retired into the Residency: it appears to be a fortified sort of place, and they think they can hold out until relief comes."